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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190883">a wild mind, a disciplined eye</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaBanana/pseuds/AlphaBanana'>AlphaBanana</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Artist AU, Cunnilingus, F/F, Human AU, Vaginal Fingering</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 22:09:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28190883</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaBanana/pseuds/AlphaBanana</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Struggling to find inspiration ahead of her next art exhibit, Riona heads to a small town, where she finds more than she bargained for.</p><p>[Human, Hallmark Movie AU]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Detective/Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Bobby Marks, Female Detective/Morgan (The Wayhaven Chronicles)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mancos, Colorado was a far cry from New York City.</p><p>That was the point, in many ways. Riona had never had any trouble finding ideas for her exhibits <em> before </em> - but something felt different this time, <em> stale </em> in a way that grated on her nerves. And as the gallery’s main draw, Riona had had no problem convincing them to fund a fortnight at the border of Colorado and New Mexico - they had been promised that whatever expense would be worth it.</p><p>Riona Lovelace, youngest star of the New York City art scene and critical darling, has artist’s block. <em> Cripplingly bad </em> artist’s block.</p><p>Bobby had taken barely any convincing at all. She’d been almost <em> bored </em>.</p><p>“Whatever you need, gorgeous.” Bobby had barely looked up from her phone, where she was organising another sale, even when Riona tells her it will be for a fortnight.</p><p>“Well, then you’ll be extra inspired, won’t you?” Bobby’s an art <em> dealer </em> , has always seen art as <em> transaction </em> . She has always thought that it is simple cause-and-effect, that pretty things go in (pretty sights, smells, <em> sensations </em> , <em> I’m always happy to be your inspiration, gorgeous </em>, purred infrequently from between shapely thighs) and art comes out. One day Riona will have the energy to explain it. One day.</p><p>For now, though, she is being handed the keys to a cosy flat in her new oasis, rented for 14 days, and Riona realises with a start that this will be the first time she has lived alone in nearly eight years. Shakes away how strange that feels.</p><p>The first few nights are sleepless, disturbed and restless, and Riona misses Bobby’s warmth in bed, even as she feels her spine relax as she realises that she is truly free to move about the flat as she wishes. No disapproving looks, no snide comments meant to wound. Just quiet and calm and space.</p><p>The fourth morning, she ventures out to buy food, leaving early enough to still see how the sunrise stains the early-spring morning sky. Tries to sketch the landscape, but nothing comes out right on the page. Screws it up - but decides against throwing it away at the last minute. Keeps it in her sketchbook instead.</p><p>In the store, a local jostles Riona’s shoulder roughly on their way to the counter - Riona opens her mouth to say something, <em> anything </em> , but she is rooted to the spot by a steely grey stare, a smirk that seems to <em> know </em> her, somehow, and any objection dies on her lips.</p><p>“Amber Leaf.” The stranger waits for the tobacco, smirks a little at the cashier when she thanks her for the leaf, and brushes past Riona again, slower and more purposeful this time, and if Riona could trust herself to <em> speak </em>—</p><p>“How can I help you, doll?” Older women have always taken her under their wing, and this one seems particularly sympathetic - offers to meet Riona for coffee the next day, and Riona is grateful to have one friendly face here, at least.</p><p>The next day, then, she is seated at a small diner with Mandy, Patty, Barb and Billy, hearing their stories, about how their children are doing well in Grand Junction, about Barb’s divorce that left her feeling free as a kite and Mandy’s terminally ill wife, and Patty’s joy at finding a book club in another town nearby.</p><p>“But what about you, dear?” Four pairs of eyes now turn to study her, and Riona can’t help but feel like she is sitting a test she has not studied for.</p><p>“I’m an artist - just here for a couple weeks from New York City.”</p><p>“We have an artist of our own, you know.” Billy pipes up, only to be glared at by the three women.</p><p>“Oh?” Riona prompts, hoping to spur Billy into divulging more, but he seems to have lost his nerve.</p><p>“She...she keeps herself to herself.” Patty settles on that, which is almost certainly kinder than what she would <em> actually </em> like to say.</p><p>“And she <em> doesn’t </em> like visitors.” Barb narrows violet-painted eyes at Riona, as if she can hear what she’s thinking. “Seriously, kid. <em> Don’t </em>.”</p><p>**</p><p>Later on, looking in the window of the little shop, Riona’s eyes trace the lines and curves of the different pieces of earthenware and porcelain.</p><p>Riona opens the door and a bell tinkles somewhere overhead but she doesn't care enough to look, because each piece is unique, speaks a different language, is filled to the brim with <em> life </em>, and—</p><p>“You lost?” The voice shocks her out of her admiration, low and throaty, rumbling along her senses, and Riona is like a fly frozen in amber, unable to move under the weight of this woman’s gaze.</p><p>“I—” Clears her throat to speak, even as the stranger turns away and busies herself with something else - and Riona tries to be humble, but she has never had to <em> work </em> for someone’s attention before, and she’s not sure she likes the feeling.</p><p>“I heard you were an artist.” <em> Stupid </em> . Of <em> course </em> she’s an artist - long, confident fingers brush over her artworks as if she knows them intimately, as if they are children, lovers, friends—</p><p>“And do I live up to your expectations?”</p><p><em> Fuck yes </em> . She is resplendent in the low light, this artist, all warm brown skin and grey eyes that pierce to the core, light catching lean muscles and taut thighs and Riona cannot <em> remember </em> the last time she was this <em> entranced </em>—</p><p>“You could say that.” The words are breathier than they had sounded in Riona’s head, breathy enough to make the stranger smirk and start to return to Riona, and Riona <em> wants </em>—</p><p>But she shouldn’t.</p><p>“You, um—” Riona turns slightly, traces the air above the pieces almost reverently, and lets a ghost of a smile play on lush lips. “You could exhibit these, you know. They’re really—”</p><p>“Art exhibits are a farce.” Whatever heat had been building between them has dissipated now, like humidity broken by thunder, and the scowl on the other woman’s face <em> frightens </em> Riona with its intensity.</p><p>“I only meant—you deserve recognition, these are beauti—”</p><p>“But I don’t want recognition. I don’t want any of that. That’s not art, that’s fame.” The softness of the woman’s accent (Greek, Riona thinks) contrasts with the harshness of her tone, and Riona almost flinches, before she straightens her shoulders and jabs a finger at this stranger.</p><p>“It’s fame <em> because of </em> art. You wouldn’t even have to change anything, people would just know about it, and—”</p><p>“And that changes art. You should know that better than anyone.”</p><p>“What is <em> that </em> supposed to mean?”</p><p>“I thought I recognised you in the store. Riona Lovelace.” And the part of her that has subconsciously wanted to hear this perfect stranger say her name, wanted them to taste it on their tongue, is punished, then, by the other woman’s <em> sneer </em>.</p><p>“Everyone’s a critic.”</p><p>“Your early stuff is good. Really good.”</p><p>Riona feels a flush of pride at that, at an artist like her praising her work, even though she can feel the <em> but </em> coming—</p><p>“But your newer work is disappointing at best.”</p><p>For the first time since she had first learned to speak, Riona is speechless. And this woman actually <em> laughs </em> , the chuckle reverberating around the room, before leaning against her workbench with her arms folded (and Riona does not want to notice how her arms are lean, muscles shifting under skin with every twitch, and <em> yet </em>—).</p><p>“You’ve grown in <em> technical skill </em> , absolutely, and some of the pieces in your most recent exhibition bordered the virtuosic.” It feels strangely intimate, someone telling her what they <em> actually </em> think about her work and not just what they think she wants to hear as the gallery darling, and she wants <em> more </em> , no matter how uncomfortable or <em> painful </em>.</p><p>Steel grey eyes meet hazel, and the air in Riona’s lungs is suddenly <em> electric </em>. “But art is about more than skill. I think you know that. That’s why you’re stuck, isn’t it, sweetheart?”</p><p>“I—how did you—” <em> No one </em> knew that, only Bobby (and Bobby <em> barely </em> paid attention to anything about Riona’s art, would hardly have known <em> how </em> to tell someone—).</p><p>This artist, this oracle, this <em> Cassandra </em> walks up to her, close enough that Riona has to tilt her head back to meet her eyes. “I can see it in the way you look at my art, in the way you look at <em> me </em>. Like you’re trying to figure me out.”</p><p><em> Fuck </em> , she is close, and Riona feels her spine straighten instinctively, as if she is being examined (and by the flare of interest in stormy grey eyes, the stranger ( <em> what is her </em> <b> <em>fucking </em> </b> <em> name, if Riona could make her throat work to speak, she could ask </em>—) likes what she sees).</p><p>“I—”</p><p>“Ask me.” The command is low, and Riona cannot help the shiver that runs through her body, the way her lips part, and she sees it all, takes it in with a smirk.</p><p>“Why can’t I <em> do </em> anything?” Riona is frustrated beyond words, frustration at so many aspects of her life pulling her in so many directions she can barely think straight.</p><p>“Because you’re trying to. Once you let go, it will start to slot into place, but only if you let it.”</p><p>The advice is so vague it belongs on a fortune cookie, and Riona’s frustration boils over before she can check herself. “You’re not making any <em> sense </em> , why can’t you just <em> tell me </em>?”</p><p>And abruptly, the woman is bored, turns away from Riona and starts selecting her clays.</p><p>“When you’re done acting like a spoiled brat, then come and find me. Name’s Morgan.”</p><p>“Just Morgan?” But there is no answer, just as she had expected, and Riona leaves, slamming the door behind her.</p><p>**</p><p>Riona manages to stay away for three days. Three days of trying, <em> really </em> trying, to start even a basic study, at one point nearly throwing her pencil at the wall.</p><p>Curves poured into a burgundy <a href="https://www.rosewe.com/purple-red-sleeveless-v-neck-bodycon-dress-g252764.html"> dress </a> designed to stun, Riona stalks into Morgan’s shop, affecting not to notice the way Morgan’s gaze drags down like she wishes it were her hands, walks up to Morgan and smiles, deceptively sweet.</p><p>“Tell me more.”</p><p>For a moment, Riona luxuriates in the feeling of Morgan just looking at her, <em> seeing </em> her (and it has been so long since she has been truly <em> seen </em>), before Morgan leans back to look for something on the workbench.</p><p>“You’ve been taught that art is sacred - but art is <em> life </em>. It’s messy, it’s fragile, it’s imperfect.”</p><p>“But—” But it makes <em> sense </em>, in a way that things haven’t for about the last five years, if Riona is honest with herself.</p><p>Morgan finds whatever she is looking for and abruptly straightens up, and suddenly they are close enough to touch, and Riona has to stop herself from leaning into the phantom contact, steps away until she is able to breathe again.</p><p>“Hold this. Feel the weight of it.” Morgan follows her far enough to place a small bowl in her hands - the bowl is earthenware, and no matter how simple its design there is something <em> familiar </em> about it, the weight comforting in her hands.</p><p>“Now smash it.”</p><p>Riona thinks for a moment that she must have misheard, she cannot <em> seriously </em> mean—</p><p>But Morgan is still standing there, and smirks a response even as Riona’s lips struggle to form the question. “You heard me.”</p><p>“I can’t.” Riona has always been an excellent student in <em> every </em> aspect of her life, and there is something almost destabilising about the admission, and she feels a little bubble of panic start to rise in her throat.</p><p>“Why?” Morgan cocks her head, eyes ever watchful.</p><p>“I just—I <em> can’t </em> .” Years and years of learned behaviours wrap around her like chains, and even trying to describe why feels <em> too much </em>—</p><p>Morgan takes a plate from a nearby pile, simply-made with an intricate floral pattern painted on the rim, and slams it against the wall, and there’s a power in her unwavering stare that’s hypnotic, <em> dangerous </em>. Morgan repeats the order, this time with a harder edge to her voice that makes Riona feel weak all of a sudden.</p><p>“Smash it. Drop it, throw it, scream if you have to - but <em> smash it </em>.”</p><p>Riona takes a breath and smashes it against the edge of the workbench. And <em> something </em> unlocks in her chest, something heady and primal, and she looks up at Morgan with something like triumph staining her cheeks.</p><p>“Again.” A quiet order, trembling around the edges, but Morgan hands her another bowl with a slow smile and that is all she needs.</p><p>Three bowls later, Riona is breathing heavily, throat sore from a scream, feeling lighter than she has in nearly a decade. Morgan looks almost transfixed by her, soft lips parted slightly as she brushes an unruly curl away from Riona’s temple, and Riona closes her eyes as she leans into the touch, misses Morgan’s catlike smile.</p><p>“Come again tomorrow evening. Wear something…” Morgan takes another opportunity to admire Riona’s curves in the dress, and Riona feels her throat constrict around a breath.</p><p>“Wear something you can get dirty in.” And Morgan’s smirk seems to lengthen into a wolfish grin at the way Riona chokes on that breath, even as Riona glares at her, and makes sure to swing her hips as she leaves.</p><p>**</p><p>The entire next day passes in a blur, and nervous energy rolls off Riona in waves, to the point where even Bobby, distracted as she is on a video call, asks if something’s the matter. Lying to Bobby has grown very easy over the years.</p><p>Riona still chooses to wear a dress, even if the material is thinner and less substantial than what she wore the day before, the feeling of slacks foreign and uncomfortable on her legs and thighs.</p><p>She arrives a little early, and waits in the shop for Morgan, who pokes her head around the door to the studio with a smirk, leaning against the doorway dressed in grey sweatpants and a simple tank top.</p><p>“So eager.”</p><p>“Let’s get started.” Riona pushes through the doorway, lets curves press into lean muscles, does not miss Morgan’s slight exhale, moving into the room with a smile even as hazel eyes drift over the workbenches and artworks.</p><p>“Here.” Morgan beckons Riona over, pushes gently on her shoulders to urge her to sit, and takes up position behind her, and Riona thinks she is already about to combust at the feel of Morgan at her back, let alone when deft fingers get to work on Riona’s hair, taming wild curls into a rough bun to keep them safe from the slick, wet clay on the wheel in front of them.</p><p>“Get your hands wet.” Only then does Riona understand the second reason why Morgan was so diligent in tying back her hair, as lips graze the shell of her ear in a whisper that scrapes across Riona’s senses like nails on skin—</p><p>“Right.” Riona had been apprehensive when she had first seen the clay in front of them, but between her fingers it feels cool, soothing, and Riona starts to work more between her fingers, letting Morgan guide her when she needs it. But for the most part, Morgan trusts her to explore, murmuring encouragements in her ear, into the column of her throat, and Riona thinks she feels Morgan smile when Riona’s pulse leaps under her lips.</p><p>Something mad takes over her, and Riona barely notices the thick clay on the wheel any more when Morgan is <em> right there </em>, and she turns her head to capture the lips that have been worshipping her throat, drinks in Morgan’s throaty groan.</p><p>The kiss is wildfire and honey, burning where it drips over her senses, and Morgan’s tongue licks deep into her mouth, and Riona thinks that Morgan must have found what she was looking for, a moan leaving her that ripples through Riona’s rib cage and settles somewhere south of her belly, intensifying when Morgan tugs at her curls.</p><p>Powerful hands, still slick with clay, skim the bare skin of Riona’s thighs, before Riona is twisted and lifted into Morgan’s lap, straddling one of her thighs and <em> oh </em> , this is art in itself, this push and pull between them that feels like it should be a sin, but <em> how </em> could something that feels this good <em> ever </em>be—</p><p>Morgan’s hands (<em> fuck </em> , Riona will never be able to look at Morgan’s hands again, not after this), knead at Riona’s hips, at her backside, and when she drags Riona’s hips forward and back Riona is <em> lost </em> , the sensations pulling a moan from deep inside her that Morgan swallows in an instant as if it is priceless nectar to be savoured. Heat pools and nerves sing and fuck, <em> fuck, </em> <b> <em>fuck</em> </b> , tremors run through Riona’s body from crown to toe, and nothing has <em> ever </em>felt like this with Bobby—</p><p>Fuck, <em> Bobby </em>.</p><p>
  <em> What am I doing? </em>
</p><p>Riona jerks her head to the side with a <em> no </em>, voice rough but still firm, and Morgan stills instantly, lets Riona stumble out of her lap like a bambi and stammer an apology, even as she presses delicate fingers to kiss-swollen lips, to try and savour the forbidden feeling.</p><p>“I can’t—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—it’s my <em> fault </em>—”</p><p>“Hush,” Morgan commands, and she obeys, as she has since she met this woman, steel and smoke and <em> heat </em>, burning through Riona’s veins like the liquid silver of her eyes. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”</p><p><em> It already does </em> . It already <em> has </em> , from their very first meeting. Riona doesn’t have to think about anything, not the gallery, not her carefully-constructed façade, not <em> herself </em> - and <em> that </em> is, in part, what this is about. Riona is still scared of losing what dull, thrumming normality might make her <em> pass </em> as one of them, not honey and summer breezes in the form of a woman. Feeling Morgan’s hands on her had felt less like an embrace and more like being taken apart at the seams and put together again, and now she has been put together <em> right </em>, all the pieces in their intended places, and she cannot imagine going back to—</p><p>“I—” Riona reaches uncertainly for Morgan, wants to feel her under her fingers, the distance between them a yawning, gaping ache that paralyses her.</p><p>“It’s fine.” Morgan stands up briskly, the patch of wetness Riona left behind still soaked into the soft fabric of her pants, and turns away from Riona with a shuddering breath, and Riona wants her <em> back </em>—</p><p>“Morgan—” Tries to say <em> sorry </em> , tries to reassure ( <em> it would be you </em> , <em> I’ll end things with Bobby, I </em>—), but Morgan snaps back quicker than she can force the words out through the clenching of her throat.</p><p>“You should go. If that’s what you want.” Morgan’s voice is quiet, controlled, but there is a simmering <em> anger </em> there, along with a hurt that makes Riona’s stomach churn with <em> guilt </em>.</p><p>“It’s not about <em> wanting </em>. I—I have to go—”</p><p>“If you still think you <em> have </em> to do anything, you haven’t learned anything from me, sweetheart.” <em> That </em> stings more than anything else, more than the fact that she still has not looked up at Riona, more than the way Morgan seems to almost choke on the words.</p><p>“Morgan, please—” <em> Please let me explain, please don’t shut me out, please love me, please please </em> <b> <em>please</em> </b>—</p><p>“Just <em> go </em>.”</p><p>And Riona obeys, as she always has, her small sob covering the whispered “shit” that Morgan lets escape before Riona flees. Distantly, as Riona tries to start her rental car, she hears a muffled yell and a crash of earthenware hitting the floor that would have been deafening if she had been there with Morgan, the way she wishes she could be.</p><p>**</p><p>The next morning, the doorbell rings, and Riona expects to find a small-town Jehovah’s Witness, but instead Bobby is <em> here </em> , standing on <em> her </em> doorstep, as if she has been summoned by the force of Riona’s restless guilt, and the feeling of being safe and <em> free </em> here crumbles to ash in her mouth.</p><p>“What—” And Bobby smiles, but it does not make Riona’s heart flutter around the edges like it used to, even when Bobby presents her with a Toblerone and a brief kiss on the cheek.</p><p>“I thought I’d surprise you. See how you were doing.” Bobby’s dark brown eyes are expectant, and Riona tries to smile.</p><p>“That’s—Bobby, that’s lovely, but—”</p><p>“Now,” and it’s like Riona hasn’t spoken, and sometimes Riona is quite sure that she would not need to be in these nonversations with Bobby, “the lovely lady at the bus station tells me there’s another artist here. Care to join?”</p><p>“I—” Thinks back to the night before, of how she had cried in the shower while washing the clay from between her thighs and her hair, and washing away the physical marks of Morgan’s presence had hurt almost as much as having to refuse her in the first place—</p><p>“Sure, ok.” There is no point in trying to refuse Bobby - there never has been.</p><p>When they get to the shop, something almost like <em> hope </em> flashes in steel-grey eyes when they land on Riona, before they drift to Bobby and Riona has to watch that hope die in front of her, watching hopelessly herself as Bobby moves around the space, interrogating every tiny detail.</p><p>“So, what do you do here?”</p><p>“Pottery.” If Bobby’s tone is conversational, Morgan’s is anything but, and Riona watches the muscles in Morgan’s throat work as they swallow around the words that neither of them dare to say.</p><p>“Bit basic, though, isn’t it?” Riona wants to <em> die </em>, there is no other way to describe the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Our niece was able to make us something.”</p><p>“<em> Your </em> niece,” and Riona neither misses the hardening of Bobby’s gaze nor the spark of warmth in Morgan’s, “took lessons for three weeks and that Roman lamp still looked like a lump of shit.” And even Morgan’s stifled chuckle cannot hide the fact that there is something deeply <em> wrong </em> about having Bobby here, as if she is <em> infecting </em> this place somehow.</p><p>Bobby, for her part, either does not see or pretends not to notice the tension laying thick in the air. “But pottery’s not the same as real art, is it? Not like what you do, Riona.”</p><p><em> No, it’s not. It’s nothing like what I do </em> . Riona had spent most of the night before looking at pictures of her own art, seeing every disingenuous little line, every hollow figure - and it was <em> hollow </em>, without character or substance. Not like these pots, with their own language and history and—</p><p>“That’s not a bad thing.” Riona tries to counter, but she cannot quite meet Bobby’s gaze, and when Bobby next speaks, her voice is honey, cloyingly sweet.</p><p>“Baby, people love what you do. It <em> sells </em>.”</p><p>“But I want—” Morgan’s eyes flick between the two of them, a quiet, almost sombre understanding flares in her eyes, but before Riona can even finish <em> saying </em> what she wants ( <em> I want freedom, I want choices, I want to feel loved </em>) Bobby has continued.</p><p>“You have to think about what other people want, gorgeous. They want <em> Riona Lovelace </em>, not some splodges of clay.”</p><p>Mercifully, then, Bobby’s phone beeps, and Bobby leaves without a word, talking to a buyer about another artist.</p><p>“Riona.” Morgan calls, and Riona turns instantly to face her like a moth to a flame. They meet in the middle, her and Morgan, and that feels natural, <em> right </em>, and when it is just the two of them Riona can pretend that this is not about to end, that Bobby is not just outside.</p><p>“What do you want?” Morgan’s voice is quiet, eyes searching for something in hazel depths, and Riona can hardly think, let alone—</p><p>“I—”</p><p>Morgan’s hand grasps roughly at Riona’s jawline, forcing her to meet her eyes and follow the command. “Tell me <em> what you want </em>.”</p><p>Riona manages to break away, waves her hands agitatedly and Morgan’s eyes never leave her, drinking in her passion and her wild gestures even as Riona pours out her soul.</p><p>“I want <em> this </em>. I want to be free to make my own art, explore my own ideas, to be with—”</p><p>“Then <em> stay </em>.” And when Morgan says it, it seems so simple, but—</p><p>“I can’t—”</p><p>Morgan scowls, cuts her off before she can finish. “You can. You just <em> won’t </em>.”</p><p>“Morgan, that’s not—”</p><p>“It’s fine. Go with her. I hope she makes you happy.”</p><p><em> You know she won’t </em> . Riona cannot bring herself to say the accusation, but she fancies that Morgan sees it in her eyes, and <em> that </em>is why she turns away.</p><p>“Thank you,” Riona murmurs instead, and Morgan’s shoulders seem to shudder in an almost-flinch, “for everything.”</p><p>Morgan doesn’t answer - she doesn’t need to.</p><p>**</p><p>Riona and Bobby are silent for the drive to the airport, a silence that feels like a noose, feels like glass running down the back of Riona’s throat.</p><p>It is only when they get out of the car that Riona finally turns to Bobby.</p><p>“Bobby, I’m not coming back. Not yet, maybe not ever.”</p><p>“Now, hang on—”</p><p>“Shut up, Bobby.” Bobby’s mouth snaps shut, lips pursed in a devil-red pout that once upon a time would have set Riona’s pulse to racing. “I need <em> this </em>. Here. I need to be away from the city.”</p><p>“That’s fine,” Bobby is nodding now, desperately finding loopholes in what Riona is saying, Riona can <em> see </em> in Bobby’s eyes that she knows what is coming, what has been coming for about three years. “I can talk the gallery into giving you more time, you <em> know </em> I can talk them into anything when it’s you—”</p><p>“I quit. I don’t want that life anymore.” It is almost as if Riona is suspended in the air above them, on the outside looking in, and she is privately impressed with how steady her tone is.</p><p>“I—I can come to Denver, there’s people who’ll want what I can sell there.”</p><p>“I don’t want <em> anything </em> about that life anymore.”</p><p>And for the first time in eight years, Bobby Marks is <em> speechless </em>, her sharp intake of breath the only sign that she understands, before she walks off to security, leaving Riona alone in the foyer of Grand Junction Regional Airport.</p><p>**</p><p>The cab journey back to Mancos is interminable, even as the stars stretch across the night sky in a tapestry, in something like a road map that leads her back to the North Star she should have been following all along.</p><p>When she arrives back in Mancos, it’s nearly midnight, but there is still a light on in the studio. Riona knocks at the door, and there’s a shuffling inside, and Morgan answers, dressed in the same sweatpants and tank top she had been wearing that night, and the hope flares in her eyes again, cautious until she sees the bags behind Riona.</p><p>“Ri—” Morgan cannot finish the thought, as Riona cups the back of her neck and drags her down for a kiss that’s almost bruising.</p><p>Morgan deepens the kiss but softens it too, tongue soothing the brutal burn of the first kiss (and <em> so much more besides </em> ) even as she tastes all of Riona, drinks her in and <em> knows </em> her, even as she breaks the kiss to rest her forehead against Riona’s.</p><p>“Tell me what you want.” Morgan’s voice is rough with something Riona does not dare to name, only lets it circle her, embrace her, as she smiles tremulously at Morgan.</p><p>“I want <em> you </em>.”</p><p>The sound that leaves Morgan is something like a gasp, and like that her bags are dragged in and forgotten, strewn over the shop floor as the door slams shut, and Riona is airborne, legs coiled around Morgan’s waist as she crests a wave of emotions and sensations she has never experienced before. Morgan crosses the space easily enough, steadies her with one arm while she uses the other to roughly shove pots onto the floor, clearing a space for her to lay Riona down and settle between her thighs.</p><p>“Tell me what <em> you </em> want.” Riona manages to gasp between kisses, and Morgan peppers kisses across her cheek, along her jawline and up to her ear.</p><p>“I’ve wanted you since I saw you.” Morgan’s voice is rough against the shell of Riona’s ear, and her fingers skim underneath Riona’s skirt to find the edge of her underwear, already damp, and her fingers pause for a moment.</p><p>“Touch me.” A demand that is weak even to Riona’s ears, and she can <em> hear </em> the smirk in Morgan’s voice as she answers.</p><p>“I <em> am </em> touching you.” Morgan’s voice is <em> unbearably smug </em>, and Riona feels frustration coil just as tightly as arousal in her belly.</p><p>“You <em> know </em> what I mean.”</p><p>Morgan chuckles at the accusation, the sound vibrating through Riona’s skull. “I want you to <em> say </em> it.”</p><p>There’s a long pause, then, as Riona tries to call the words forward (<em> what do you </em> <b> <em>want</em> </b> — <em> you you you </em>), and at one point Riona tries to test Morgan’s grip, wiggles as much as she can, but Morgan holds her fast with dark amusement in her eyes, close enough to kiss—</p><p>“Fuck me, Morgan.”</p><p>Morgan’s answering grin is wolflike, and the long fingers that had so patiently lingered outside her underwear now dip into her warmth, and both of their eyes flutter closed at the sensation, even as Morgan starts to move, letting her thumb move to graze Riona there, <em> there </em> , <b>there</b> , and Morgan’s chuckle and renewed attention is the only sign that Riona screamed that aloud. Moans fill the air, and Riona isn’t sure whether they’re hers or Morgan’s but she doesn’t <em> care </em> , <em> this feeling </em> is all that matters, the feeling of Morgan around her, <em> inside </em> her, making her feel whole, and she is <em> so close </em>—</p><p>But then Morgan abruptly stops, and when Riona registers the loss she whines and it’s a needy, broken thing.</p><p>“I want to see you.” Morgan’s voice is low and full of promise, and she lifts Riona again, lips never leaving her neck, carries her to the bed and deposits her roughly on the cot in the studio.</p><p>Riona tries to help, she really does - but Morgan’s hands and lips work in tandem to destroy her concentration, shattering it and sending shards into the stratosphere, even as she lavishes attention on Riona’s curves, her nipples, her hips, her thighs, before settling between her thighs and licking a long strip up her slit.</p><p>The cry that leaves Riona at that is something beyond human, and Morgan luxuriates in it for a moment with a smile against her nub before she <em> devours it </em> , and Riona <em> knows </em> that these are her moans now, can taste them in the air, sweet as honey. Her half-hearted pleas for mercy ( <em> Morgan, please </em> — <em> Morgan, </em> <b> <em>fuck</em> </b> — <em> Morgan, </em> <b> <em>there</em> </b>) fall on deaf ears as Morgan brings her to the edge once, twice, thrice, before letting her fall into sensations deep and sharp as a ravine, only easing her pace once Riona starts to weakly push her head away. Morgan’s lips and chin are glistening, and her breath is ragged and her eyes glazed from her own pleasure, taken by her own hand while Riona was still in the throes of passion.</p><p>There is a curious taste of disappointment at the back of Riona’s throat, mingling with something that feels like <em> guilt</em>, even as Morgan moves up the bed to embrace her tightly. “I wanted to—”</p><p>“Next time, sweetheart.” Morgan pushes sweaty curls back from Riona’s face, straightens them a little, and contents herself with a little tug that makes Riona clench in answer.</p><p>And despite herself, Riona practically purrs at this affection, given without expectation, feels Morgan smile against her temple and drifts to sleep in the circle of Morgan’s arms, limbs tangled and breaths in harmony.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I told you to stay still.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona freezes at having been caught trying to wriggle, trying to test the restraints at her wrists - tight enough that she still feels bound, but if she really wanted, she could free herself from the silk whispering against her skin with relative ease.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She would never. But knowing that she <em>can</em> eases some of her lingering anxiety regarding the blindfold.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“But I like seeing you.” Riona pouted to hide a tremor - Bobby had used a blindfold once, and Riona did not want it to be like—</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Morgan kissed the pout, dragged Riona’s jutting lower lip between her teeth with just enough force to send sensations skittering through Riona’s nerves.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“You will. It’d only be for the first part.” Morgan’s voice was soothing, before it dropped into a lower octave and rumbled across Riona’s senses.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“I still want to see you come undone, after all.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona had hardly needed convincing after that, the idea that anything could intensify these times with Morgan more enticing than Riona wanted to admit.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then the bed shifts under Morgan’s weight, and Riona arches her back to try and find her, succeeding as Morgan lays her still <em>frustratingly</em> clothed body on top of Riona’s naked form for a moment, a reassuring weight that sets Riona’s nerve endings alight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan’s voice sounds almost faraway, murmuring the words uncertainly. “If you want, I can take it—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s good, I just—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure?” Lips against the shell of Riona’s ear, and the whimper that leaves Riona would be embarrassing if it didn’t make Morgan growl next to her ear before moving blazing lips to Riona’s collarbone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona hums in agreement, eyes fluttering closed even under the blindfold—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Until they then snap open as Morgan grips Riona’s hips tightly. “I need your words, love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The endearment thrums through already pleasure-addled veins, and it takes Riona a moment to remember what words <em>are</em>, let alone how to use them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure. Very sure.” Huffs a frustrated sigh, shifting on the bed slightly to try and encourage Morgan to move. “Morgan, <em>please</em>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona can hear Morgan’s smirk in her voice before she drawls her answer into Riona’s skin, already damp from sweat. “Good girl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Lips of fire begin to trail down to Riona’s sternum, before Morgan takes a moment to rest her forehead against Riona’s thundering heart. They lie there for a moment, just the two of them, and Riona only wishes she could see Morgan at peace, but she <em>knows</em>, can <em>feel</em> Morgan’s serenity radiate off her in waves, soothing Riona’s own quakes and scars.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Where was I?” Morgan seems to collect herself, remember her self</span>
  <span>-stated purpose of driving Riona <em>mad</em>, starts peppering her breasts with kisses feather-light enough to tickle and Riona <em>giggles</em> at that, feeling a kind of euphoria dull her other senses and narrow them to the pinprick precision of Morgan’s lips on the swell underneath her breast. Deceptively powerful fingers roll the other nipple between them in a rhythm that already has Riona trying to draw her thighs together, instead clutching more tightly around Morgan’s waist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan refuses to take the bait, instead merely swaps sides, practised fingers again stroking and pinching sensitive skin while lips caress Riona’s other breast. Lets her tongue dart out to tease Riona’s nipple and Riona lets out a ragged gasp, the unexpected (yet so <em>achingly</em> anticipated) gesture shooting straight to Riona’s heart like an arrow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morgan—"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, sweetheart.” The disembodied voice sounds as ragged as Riona is sure her own would sound if she knew any other word but her lover’s name. Morgan rests her head against Riona’s heart again for a moment, this time with her ear pressed to Riona’s heart, listening for the tell-tale rhythm it always settles into with Morgan. Her <em>hands</em>, though - her hands steal lower, mapping out Riona’s curves and murmuring benedictions into Riona’s skin, too quiet for Riona to hear but she <em>feels</em> them, drinks them in, and hums her own in answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, after what could well have been years (and would that <em>really</em> be so bad, with Morgan above and around her?) Morgan’s lips follow the path of her fingers, achingly slowly, and Riona is trembling by the time Morgan’s lips reach the top of her thigh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“<em>Morgan</em>—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan ignores the supplication and instead works her way back up to kiss Riona’s jawline, before moving her lips to Riona’s and pouring her soul into Riona’s mouth, and Riona drinks deeply and gives in kind, only wishing that she could grip at Morgan’s shoulders as she would normally.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Morgan begins her pilgrimage south again, seeming to be distracted by new and different tastes of Riona’s skin, sucking faint marks into pillowy curves and moaning softly at the feel of Riona under her tongue, even as Riona shakes and quakes with every touch.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second time she reaches the crease between Riona’s hip and thigh, Riona whines wordlessly, flexes against the silk ties, tries to cant her hips to meet Morgan—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Who moves away from the bed entirely. Riona sinks back into the bed, tries to not let anxiety build but <em>where is she</em> and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, after what seems like far too many seconds, Morgan is back at her side, fingers lingering at the restraints on Riona’s wrists.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Off?” Morgan’s question is tentative, and if she were going to elaborate she is cut off by Riona babbling.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please, I’ll be good, I just want to touch—” Being bound for Morgan’s delectation had seemed like a glorious idea, but when a large part of Riona’s pleasure comes from tasting Morgan’s skin, feeling it under her fingers, holding her close…well. Perhaps she found her own personal brand of torture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona is silenced with a kiss that is almost bruising in its intensity as Morgan sits next to Riona on the bed and dutifully unties her, presses gentle kisses to Riona’s wrists, before giving her a quiet instruction.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Keep your eyes closed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona does as she’s bid, even as the blindfold is discarded, and Morgan’s breath is warm and spiced, somehow, on her skin as she kisses each of Riona’s eyes in turn, before running kisses along the ridge of Riona’s temple, the apple of her cheeks, her cheekbones—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tasting the salt of tears that Riona did not even realise had fallen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Riona?” Morgan is unsure and it is endearing, but Riona realises she doesn’t have the words to tell Morgan it is alright (these feelings are breath-taking, <em>devastating</em>, and if Riona thinks too much about it she might go mad - cannot guarantee that she has not already).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Realises she does not <em>need</em> the words. Opens hazel eyes to meet storm-grey and smiles tremulously, before leaning forward to taste her salt on Morgan’s lips, Morgan dropping one of Riona’s wrists to cradle the back of her head, letting Riona grip Morgan and pull them closer together (she has never been able to bear distance, not from Morgan, and now that they live together—they <em>live</em> together—she does not have to).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan moans into the kiss, messy and panting and <em>greedy</em> as it is, and Riona swallows it, offers her own in answer as Morgan coils her free arm around Riona’s waist, letting long fingers rub soothing circles into the skin at Riona’s hip.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It takes more effort than Riona wants to give to stop kissing Morgan, but she manages to tear her lips away long enough to choke out, “I want to see—”.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Silenced with another kiss, another groan, both more desperate than the last, until Morgan consents and removes her shirt over her head, all that’s needed for Morgan’s torso to be revealed to her in all its glory. Riona’s eyes drink in the lean lines of bronzed muscles before she lets her fingertips see for her as well, feeling the contrast of soft and hard, rough and smooth, relishing every shiver of pleasure she could elicit from Morgan, even as Morgan kicks off the soft tracksuit bottoms she favours when it is just the two of them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ri—” Morgan’s head drops back, doll-like, as Riona’s lips close around one nipple, delicate fingers dancing over any other skin she can reach, and Morgan moans low in her throat, cups the back of Riona’s head to wordlessly ask her to stay put (and why would she ever leave?)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But then Riona has the burning need to see Morgan and straightens, straddles Morgan’s hips and cradles her face between her hands. Morgan nuzzles into Riona’s hand, and Riona moves closer to press soft lips to Morgan’s other cheek, before pulling back to rest her forehead against Morgan’s.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I love you</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan answers in kind, brushes wayward curls away from Riona’s eyes, lets her hand linger at Riona’s cheekbone for a moment in a gesture that is blasphemous in its reverence, all the while looking at Riona as if she might vanish in a puff of smoke if she stopped looking at her (Riona never wants her to stop looking).</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I</span>
  </em>
  <span> <em>love you too</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona could not say how long they spend staring at each other – there is something hypnotic about Morgan’s eyes, steel and starlight. But Riona is the first to move, has always favoured <em>showing</em>—showing <em>that</em> more than saying it. So does Morgan, and when long fingers drift southward to trace patterns on Riona’s abdomen, the effect is almost destabilising.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morgan, don’t tease.” Riona’s voice is breathier than she would like, even as hazel eyes track the way the lips she loves curve into a smirk.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ve been teasing me all <em>day</em>.” A small peck to Riona’s lips, before Morgan showers kisses on Riona’s cheek and jaw, sending thoughts skittering into the darkness as Riona gasps.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How—how’d you figure that out?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Those fucking shorts.” Ah. The tight, jean shorts had seemed quite a brilliant idea in the morning, with the temperature outside sweltering – and one look at Morgan’s blown pupils (and the quiet disappointment when Riona had kissed her chastely and told her that she had to go see Mandy at the grocery store) had cemented the notion that Riona had made the right choice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She still thinks that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s the height of summer, what else was I going to wear?” Tries to deflect, with the sharp tongue that Morgan—that Morgan does not have to <em>say</em> she loves, but shows with every touch. Morgan nuzzles into the hollow of Riona’s neck and inhales deeply before she grumbles her answer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not saying I <em>want</em> you to wear anything else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan sucks a mark at Riona’s neck that will be almost impossible to hide (and she <em>knows</em> it, has a mischievous glint in her eye that would make Barb proud) even as her fingers brush against the slick of Riona’s inner thighs - and Riona thinks that Morgan’s moan may be louder than her own—</span>
</p><p><span>And then Riona barely has time to think because she is airborne, being lifted effortlessly into the air so that Morgan can slide down the bed far enough to be at eye level with Riona’s clit.</span> M<span>organ arches a questioning brow at Riona, to which Riona nods in answer. Her valiant attempt at speech blurs into a helpless moan as Morgan’s tongue drags against her in one long lick, followed by a pause long enough to make Riona look down at the woman lying between her legs. Just in case.</span></p><p>
  <span>Morgan has her eyes closed, lashes fluttering lazily as she tries to process the sensations. Riona cannot help but take a moment to look down at Morgan, content even as Riona’s slick lingers on her chin, before she brushes an errant strand of hair away from Morgan’s forehead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ok?” Feels her brow furrow – just because Morgan <em>usually</em> wants Riona like this doesn’t mean she <em>has</em> to, and maybe it is too much right now—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm.” Morgan happily resumes <em>devouring</em> Riona, flicking her tongue against Riona’s clit in a rhythm designed to wreck her and touching every plane of skin she can reach, apparently having tired of her earlier teasing—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Except she clearly hasn’t. Because when Riona, strung tight enough to snap, can feel the edge approaching, can <em>taste</em> it on her tongue, would only have to take one step more to float off the precipice—Morgan pulls Riona back. Kisses her slick thighs languidly and holds Riona up so she cannot squirm against Morgan’s tongue, listens to her breathing and makes sure her thundering heart rate has calmed down before she begins again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona tries to scold, to beg, to <em>bribe</em>, but the words will not come, instead she <em>sings</em> for Morgan, voice lilting in a litany as Morgan brings her closer and closer to the edge. For once, Morgan seems to take mercy on Riona, moaning into an open-mouthed kiss to her clit. The vibrations and the pressure of Morgan’s tongue work in tandem to destroy Riona totally and utterly, and she welcomes it, offers psalms and hymns of praise for Morgan who does not waver for an instant even as Riona breaks apart above her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Riona weakly tries to lift herself, Morgan relents, manoeuvres Riona so that she is tucked into Morgan’s side as if she were made to be there and showers her with kisses. She only stops her movements when Riona captures her lips and kisses her deeply, before frowning when Riona gets to her knees shakily.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ri?” The question is hardly unwarranted – Riona normally needs time to recover when she comes, needs to feel her body as her own again, not as a thrumming beacon of pleasure, and movement is normally far beyond her. But determination is a powerful enough force that Riona can carefully move her limbs to straddle Morgan’s stomach without much difficulty, not missing the way Morgan’s eyes flutter shut at the brief press of Riona’s slit, still slick from Morgan’s earlier ministrations, against her abdomen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just relax.” Riona does not sound as assured as she would like, instead breathless and just a little flustered as she leans forward to run her tongue along the ridge of Morgan’s collarbone, more angular and defined than her own, tasting the salt of their sweat.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You—” Morgan starts to say something, but it is lost in the groan that leaves her when Riona returns to sucking Morgan’s nipple into her mouth, letting her tongue roll over it slowly even as she keeps her eyes on Morgan, who fights the fluttering of her own lashes to meet Riona’s gaze.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan doesn’t seem to be sure whether she wants to pull Riona back up to her lips or push her down to what is clearly her eventual destination – instead she settles for cradling the back of Riona’s head as if it is crystal, murmuring praise so quietly that Riona has to strain to hear it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The shudder that ripples through Morgan when Riona’s lips graze the sensitive skin of her lower belly is intoxicating – Riona runs her tongue along the divots of lean muscle, the crease of Morgan’s inner thigh, and finally tasting her (<em>fuck</em>, she is already wet, and a flare of pride and something altogether warmer blooms in Riona’s heart at the thought).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan claims that she cannot sing. And yet the moans and sighs and gasps that leave her are sweeter than any choir, even as Riona works her harder, feels her jaw ache from the strain. There is something almost otherworldly about Morgan like this, that she wants to spend decades sculpting (there would be no point – Riona is no goddess, and she could no more recreate the perfection of Morgan’s body than nature could).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona lets her finger trail lazily over Morgan’s slit, feels the muscles in her abdomen tense as Morgan yells a curse word (Greek, Riona thinks, but she does not much care at the moment), and Riona is grateful that the studio is in the middle of nowhere. As if the whole town does not already know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(As if the whole town didn’t know that they would fall—that they would fall into whatever this is before they did. Mandy and Barb ran a betting pool from the pharmacy. To everyone’s surprise, Billy, with his wide-eyed sincerity and easy smiles, won the lot.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Riona—” Morgan’s voice is wrecked, eyes wild and hair tousled and Riona reaches up to lace her fingers through Morgan’s, feels Morgan clutch them tightly to ground herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Riona, I—” Morgan tries again, still squeezing Riona’s hand tight enough to bruise, but then—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Riona’s questioning hum rattles through Morgan, and Morgan <em>screams</em>, squeezes her thighs around Riona’s ears as if she means to keep her there.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(A fabulous idea. Forever between Morgan’s thighs would transcend the need for anything, even oxygen, although—)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Although, Riona is quite glad she does not have to test that theory, as Morgan releases her thighs as soon as she resurfaces and surges forward to kiss her, moaning at her own taste on Riona’s tongue.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona climbs back into Morgan’s lap to be closer (even in the summer heat, Riona needs Morgan’s warmth) and Morgan moans, trailing her fingers down Riona’s abdomen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think you have more for me.” Morgan’s smirk is back in full force, and were Riona standing she might feel faint. As it is, she grips Morgan’s shoulder for balance before pressing her lips to Morgan’s collarbone, scraping blunt fingernails along Morgan’s lower belly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Riona has not been without a manicure for this long since before she started dating Bobby – they had become her last line of defence when Bobby would ask for too much—)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Distracts herself from thoughts of Bobby by smiling against sweat-slick skin. “Do you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona regrets the question immediately, pulls back to look Morgan in the eye. “We don’t have to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I want—” Morgan seems to struggle with herself for a moment, grip on Riona’s hips tight enough to leave marks, and Riona waits for as long as she can before impatient worry gets the better of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You ok?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, I’m just—” Morgan’s throat constricts around a breath before she shakes her head and looks down at Riona with eyes half-lidded.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Got in my head a bit.” Kisses Riona’s cheek to assuage her worries, then her lips, then her jawline. “Back with you now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good. I’m—” <em>I’m glad</em>. But that seems redundant when Morgan’s fingers find a home between Riona’s legs and begin to stroke, pace achingly slow even when Riona rocks impatiently above Morgan’s lap. Thinks a moment, chewing on her lip, before she settles a little lower, so that she is almost sitting directly on Morgan’s lean thighs—so she can reach—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona gasps as the sensation of her fingers on Morgan’s clit makes Morgan jolt, fingers dipping into her entrance and then—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then, all bets are off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan sets an unforgiving pace, one that Riona struggles to match, addled with bliss as she is but <em>fuck</em>, she intends to try. Morgan’s lips are everywhere they can reach, and Riona guides them to meet hers, sucks on Morgan’s lower lip and swallows her moan, lets it nourish her. Gives her own in response when Morgan asks it of her (Riona realises abruptly that she would give Morgan anything she asked if she thought it would make her happy).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It strikes Riona as monstrously unfair that Morgan’s hands are that much larger, her fingers that much longer, when it means that Morgan’s thumb can comfortably rub against Riona’s clit at the same time as her fingers delve into Riona’s slit and beckon to her (her self-control is very close to answering those summons but Morgan still hasn’t—)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They pass each other’s names back and forth like priceless art, as if saying them with anything less than awestruck reverence would damage them, and Riona starts to hear Morgan’s breath stutter in her throat, even as her arm begins to cramp and her own bliss approaches.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come for me.” Riona’s command is breathy, breath<em>less</em>, yet unbelievably Morgan seems almost ready to follow the order, before she takes a deep breath to steady herself and bend down to trail lips that burn like a brand down to the column of Riona’s throat and—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You first.” And with that, Morgan bites down on the other side of Riona’s neck to give her another mark she won’t be able to hide but that doesn’t matter when pleasure crashes over her in waves and <em>fuck</em>, Morgan’s hand is still moving just as Riona’s is, and Morgan—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A particularly well-angled thrust of delicate fingers has Morgan seize up with a hoarse cry, back ramrod straight as she clenches around Riona’s fingers tight enough to cut off the circulation, and Riona moves her fingers as best she can to work Morgan through it, watching with rapt attention as pleasure relaxes Morgan’s features into a broad smile, less guarded than normal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Riona is the first to remove her fingers, trying to discreetly massage feeling back into her wrist. Morgan seems reluctant to remove her fingers at first, moving them experimentally against Riona’s walls and only relenting when Riona whines slightly at the stimulation, removing them then with a wet sound that makes Riona blush.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Morgan’s breathing is heavy, but there is something different about the rhythm of the rises and falls of her chest, and Riona looks up to see—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s <em>crying</em>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She tries to brush them away before Riona can see but once Riona has seen, she cannot let them go unanswered. Kneels on the bed, still naked as the day she was born, and cradles Morgan’s head against her chest, murmuring quiet instructions and permissions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(“Let it go”, “that’s it”, “I’ve got you” – although that last one seemed to make Morgan freeze, more so than the others)</span>
</p>
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